Restoration

Harry sat around a breakfast table of mixed feelings. Everyone was relieved to be finished with the war, but the funeral arrangements for Fred were still in the making. Harry rested his head on his open hand at the thought of another funeral. He'd been to so many in the last two months that his grief seemed to stretch behind him in one long endless blurr, starting with Colin and winding directly to Snape's funeral three days ago. Harry hadn't cried since the battle that had demolished half of Hogwarts. He thought he was somehow unable--that the enormity of the compiled losses was squeezing him so tightly that he couldn't produce tears. The most that would come to him was a sort of tired blankness that settled on him every time he thought of it. Which was most of the time, so he walked around looking stunned almost constantly.

The Weasleys were understanding, and had resigned themselves to leaving him alone with his thoughts. But they were alone in their thoughts as well; there wasn't much conversation to be had anyway. He was currently sitting around the table in the kitchen at the Burrow, poking at his eggs rather than eating them. And he wasn't the only one. He glanced down the table, noting that George was staring at the table vacantly; he hadn't even gotten himself a plate. Ginny was nibbling on her toast, and Percy was pushing marmalade around on his plate while tears slid silently from under his glasses and off his chin. Mrs Weasley sniffled quietly while she scrubbed a skillet by hand. Mr Weasley was looking at his bacon like the effort it would take to eat it was akin to trying to bench press a castle. Ron, Charlie, Bill, and Fleur were eating mechanically, shoveling in food even though their thoughts were obviously elsewhere.

Everyone jumped when a few loud sqwauks announced the arrival of the mail. Several owls swooped into the kitchen through the open window. Harry's gut clenched at the absence of Hedwig, even though it had been months and months. Harry briefly wondered if he would ever get used to not seeing her. He put his free hand to his face as well. No one noticed.

Five envelopes dropped in front of Mr Weasley--he looked as though he couldn't muster the energy to look at them any more than he could muster the energy to eat. A letter landed in front of Ginny, who absently whispered "Luna..." Another letter dropped in front of Percy, who looked astounded to be receiving mail. When he turned it over to look at it, Harry saw Oliver Wood's name in the corner. An envelope addressed in Hermione's comfortably familiar writing landed next to Ron, and several more letters (from Neville, Luna, and Dean and Seamus) came to rest in front of Harry. He had picked up Neville's letter and started to open it when a final owl--a beautiful ebony black--rushed in, dropped a heavy package on Harry's plate, and soared away again. Harry lifted the package gingerly, not sure if he should trust the contents; the last of the Death Eaters were still being rounded up. But as he shifted it in his hands, Harry realized it was a book. He looked at the envelope, at the writing addressing the book to him, and thought it looked familiar. He couldn't place it though. Wondering who would be sending him a book at a time like this, he left his uneaten breakfast and took the package outside to open it. The Weasleys wouldn't notice.

He walked out the back door and sat down on the steps facing the garden. Harry opened the letter first. There was only one sheet of parchment, folded neatly. He saw the same familiar hand, spelling out a short note-- "Seeing as you found this book so helpful, I thought you might like to have it back." And nothing else. There was no signature, no hint as to what it might be or who it came from. Harry took a deep breath, and slid his fingers beneath the string holding the paper on. He waited until almost all the wrapping was gone to exhale.

The book was old; he could tell from the back cover, which was the first exposed to him. He opened the back cover, and thought he would faint from shock. [i]Property of the Half Blood Prince[/i] was scrawled inside the back cover, in what Harry now recognized as Severus Snape's handwriting. His lower lip trembled, and he promptly flipped the book to look at the front. [b]Advanced Potion Making[/b] showed dully on the front cover. His breath came light and fast as he bit his lip to stop it quivering.

Snape had rescued it. He'd gone to the Room of Requirement, while still under surveillance by the Carrows, to save it, and now he'd given it to Harry. Harry couldn't help but think of it as one final lesson from his Potions professor, and the tears started to fall. Tears not just for Snape, but for Colin, and Lupin, and Cedric, for Sirius, Dumbledore, and every other person who had died fighting. He held the book to his chest and sobbed; cried like he couldn't remember ever having cried before.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see George sitting on the step beside him, his face wet and red and puffy. Harry threw himself into George's arms, and they both cried while George held him.